


Rosewater

by knitbelove (ladymac111)



Series: The happy ending is when things are going to begin for me. [6]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Intercrural Sex, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Present Tense, Recipes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:12:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7022101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/knitbelove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon and Baz spend a rainy afternoon cooking together and having fun in the bedroom.</p><p>Includes recipes!  For the May 12-in-12 prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rosewater

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place the autumn before “Facing Future”, while Simon is in his third year at uni and Baz is doing a postgraduate law course.
> 
> Thank you to RibenaRockstar for the Britpick!

_-Baz-_

Simon is dripping wet when he comes in, and drops two plastic shopping bags in my lap before he shrugs out of his raincoat and hangs it on its hook, where it proceeds to splash on my shoes.

“Hey!” I protest, pushing my textbook aside and standing up.  “Watch where the water’s going, Snow!  Those are my favourite shoes.”

“Oh!  Sorry.”  He pushes them aside with his toe, then kicks off his own shoes, which look and sound thoroughly sodden.  I fear for the state of them once they’ve dried, and wonder for a moment how he’s made it this long without wellies.  At least these ones are only canvas, and not leather.  He peels off his socks too and drops them by the shoes.  “It’s really raining out there,” he says.

It’s been pattering on the roof and windows since we woke up, and started coming down much harder about half an hour ago.  I hand Simon the bags of groceries, and decide to ignore the socks.  “I hadn’t noticed.”

He rolls his eyes and heads into the kitchen.  “If you’re going to be rude you won’t get any special Saturday afternoon pudding.”

“Pudding?”  I’m almost ashamed at the childlike eagerness in my voice, and I follow after him.  “What are you making?”

“Rice pudding.”  He sets the bags on the table, then starts unpacking.  Milk, eggs, an onion and a bag of rocket -- these must be our usual groceries as well.  I watch him put things away, and then I notice the unusual ingredient, last in the bottom of one of the bags.

I grab it, because I almost can’t believe what I’m seeing.  “Is that rosewater?”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing the fridge shut.  “I was buying cardamom anyway, and I’d seen something on Pinterest about rose cardamom rice pudding so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“I haven’t had anything rose in -- in years.”  I’m feeling a bit stunned, actually, and trying not to get overwhelmed by a flood of memories from my early childhood that I didn’t realise I still had.

Snow gives me a quizzical look before he pulls his phone out of his pocket.  “All right there, Baz?”

“Yeah, fine.”  I shake myself and set the bottle down on the table a bit harder than I mean to.  “Sorry, just -- remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“All sorts of things.”  I don’t know where to begin.

He raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything, just looks at the phone and then gets out our huge jar of rice.

I sit down at the table and watch him while he measures rice and water into his favourite pot and starts it on the hob.  I envy his ease a bit; he makes rice like it’s as simple as breathing. I’ve tried to do it all sorts of different ways, but mine always winds up a sticky mess, or burnt -- or, frequently, both.  At this point he doesn’t ask me to do it any more.

I look at the rosewater again.  “My grandmother,” I say, and Simon glances at me.  “My mother’s mother.  She loved roses, I still associate the smell with her.  She wore rosewater as perfume, I think.”

“I don’t know her,” he says.

“No, you wouldn’t, she died when I was a child.  Right before my mother did, actually.  At least she didn’t have to go through that whole … that.”  I sigh; I’m getting off track and into territory I don’t want to be in.  “Rosewater, though.  She never baked herself, of course, but on holidays with her we always had ghorayeba, they were her favourites.  My mother loved them too.  I haven’t had them since I was little.”

Simon’s brow is furrowed, and I know it’s at the unfamiliar word.  “Go eat a what?”

“Ghorayeba,” I say, a bit slower.  “Egyptian butter biscuits.  We always did them with rosewater and pistachios.”

“Sounds good.  Do you have a recipe?”

I shrug.  “No.  But I have Google.”

He gives me that bright smile I can’t look away from.  “Find me a recipe and I’ll make them for you.”

“Really?”

“‘Course.”

“Today?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Is it really a two desserts kind of day?”

He shrugs one shoulder.  “If you’re worried about your figure we can go for a run when the rain stops.”

I chuckle and stand up from my chair.  “Let’s make the one first and see how we feel.”

“All right.”

I step over to Simon and give him a quick kiss.  “Need me for anything right now, or can I get back to my homework?”

“Well,” he says, thoughtfully, “we’ve got twenty minutes while the rice cooks, if you wanted to do … something else.”

“Naughty,” I murmur, and I lean down for another kiss, deeper this time, the sort of kiss that’s meant to lead to something.

He puts his hands on my chest, and after a moment pushes me gently back, just enough that I get the message.  “I do have to get this rice started first.”

I pout.  “ _Very_ naughty.”

He grins.  “I know you can control yourself for five minutes.”

I slide my arms around his waist and affect a vaguely Northern accent.  “You know nothing, Simon Snow.”

He laughs, and reaches up to give me a peck on the corner of my mouth.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I can’t help smiling.  “I don’t know, I’ve just always wanted to say it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”  He twists just out of my embrace, and checks the pot of rice.  “This has to come to a boil, and then I’ll be free.  Just a couple minutes more.”

I step behind him, slide my hands into the hip pockets of his jeans and pull his backside against me.  He smells lovely, warm and delicious and sexy, and I dip my nose to the spot where his neck disappears under the collar of his shirt, press my lips to his skin.

He shivers slightly at my touch, presses back into me, into my growing arousal.  I try to bite back a moan but instead it comes out a needy whine, and a little laugh bursts out of him.

“If I’d known you were that randy I would have left the rice for after.”

I hide my face against the side of his neck.  “I’m fine.”

He laughs again.  “Of course, love.”  And then he braces both hands on the counter and grinds his arse back against my groin, and I gasp before I can stop myself.

“Fuck, Simon …”

“Yeah, just a minute.”  He sounds breathless too, which makes me ache even more.

I pull my hands out of his pockets and slide them across his belly, wrapping my arms around him.  I manage to hold him quietly for a while, controlling my urge to just _take him_ where he stands here in the kitchen.

Finally he shifts his weight, and I look up to see him lift the lid off the pot, then replace it and turn down the burner.

“Ready?” I ask, trying not to sound too eager

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets the timer for eighteen minutes.  “Yes,” he breathes, turning into me and pressing his mouth against mine.

My knees go a bit weak and I grab him by the hips; he wraps one arm around my back and then pulls his face away from mine.  “Come on, let’s go in the bedroom.”

I’ve forgotten how to speak, so I swallow and nod and let him take me by the hand.

Once he gets me in the bedroom he tugs the hem of my jumper up to my chest; I grab it and take it the rest of the way off while he starts in on my buttons.  He’s wearing a zip-up hoodie so I fumble to unzip it, and embarrassingly I finish that just as he’s pushing my shirt off my shoulders.  I shrug out of it and drop it with my jumper, and he flings the hoodie on top of the growing pile of discarded clothing before he strips off his t-shirt, revealing the constellations of moles on his chest -- and his shoulders, and his back….

I can’t resist those damned moles.  I slide my hands around his waist and start with the ones under his left ear, then trail my lips down his neck, across his shoulder, around to his back, where I finish with a noisy _smek_ on the big one between his shoulder blades.

He giggles and twists around.  “Baz.”

I can’t help grinning while I take his face in my hands and kiss him.  He opens his mouth under mine and I’m so overcome with excitement that I lunge into him, toppling both of us onto the bed.  He growls and a shiver of lust shoots through me like a bolt of lightning.

Snogging him is amazing but at this point I’m starting to feel desperate for his cock, so I roll off to the side a little, enough that I can unbutton his jeans.  He pushes me away so gently that I’m not sure what he’s doing until he sits up halfway, shimmies out of his trousers and pants in one motion, and gives me a wicked look.

I can’t help salivating when I see him fully naked like this, and when I think about taking his prick in my mouth I can feel the tingle of my fangs extending.  Luckily this is a known phenomenon in our bedroom, and we keep a stash of magicked-unbreakable and unlubricated condoms for just this situation.

I sit up and reach for my bedside drawer.  “You’re still dressed,” Simon says breathlessly, while I take out a condom.

“So?  Won’t get in the way of the plans I have for you.”

I don’t think I’m imagining the flushing of the skin on his chest and neck, and I’m certain I can smell his blood drawing nearer the surface.  He spreads his thighs and watches me with hooded eyes while I rip open the wrapper, then crawl back up his body and kiss him.

“How much?” I ask.

“Lots,” he murmurs back, directly into my mouth, kissing me with his words.

My cock throbs in my pants, and I shift my hips to try to relieve some of the discomfort caused by the fact that I’m still wearing my jeans.  “Can I finger you?” I whisper.

I can feel him smiling against my lips.  “Try it after we get going.”

Which is _exactly_ what I was hoping to hear; I crush another kiss onto his face before I slide down so I can bury my face in the exquisite musk of the crease at the top of his thigh.  I brush my tongue over his bollocks, prompting a gasp, and then drag it up the underside of his cock, which turns the gasp into a deep moan.

I pop the condom between my lips and take the head of his penis into my mouth, rolling the rubber down his shaft while I take him as deep as I can.  Which isn’t that far, really; he’s pretty big and my gag reflex is sensitive enough that I have to stop when the tip brushes my soft palate.  I pull off a little quicker than I’d like, but press my lips to his frenulum while I take the condom the rest of the way down with my fingers.  He whines and tangles the fingers of one hand in my hair, pulling gently, only hard enough to express the intensity of what he’s feeling, not to tell me to stop.

My urge to bite him is stronger than I’d like, but not strong enough that I’m afraid I’ll actually do it.  There’s a kind of itch in my teeth though, so I take his cock in my mouth again, and this time pull off slowly, dragging my teeth over the rubber that’s becoming slick with my saliva.  I turn my head while I’m doing it, rubbing all through my mouth, letting the condom catch on my fangs, tug on them, put up a fight that his skin wouldn’t.

When I get up to the head again I just barely graze my incisors over it, mindful of his sensitivity.  He’s breathing deeply, not exactly panting, and when I push his leg to the side he’s perfectly relaxed, lets his knee fall away, giving me a little more space.  I suck on the tip of his cock, experimentally, and he tenses for a moment, then gives me a blissful sigh.

I love that he likes this so much; it’s deeply romantic, being slow and gentle.  I continue in that vein, but without the teeth -- that was mostly for me, and he doesn’t like if it goes on too long.  I slide the fingers of my left hand loosely around the base, and then alternate wrapping my lips around him, delicate sucking, kisses and licking and occasionally fluttering my tongue just to get him to gasp in surprise.

Eventually my jaw starts getting sore.  I lean my cheek on his thigh, taking a moment to gather myself, to control my own arousal.  “What do you think?” I murmur, brushing the knuckles of my right hand against his perineum.

He groans happily, slides his fingers through my hair.  “Yes, yes yes _yes_.”

And then I feel him shifting, so I lift myself up to see him reaching into his bedside table for the bottle of lube.  He tosses it at me, even though I’m right here, and I laugh while I fumble it.  “Take it easy, Simon.”

He grins, and he’s blushing.  “Hurry up, I’m excited.”

I flip the cap open and squeeze a few drops onto my fingers while he settles back on his pillow.  I’m not sure if this will be enough, but I don’t want to make a huge mess, and I suppose I can always use more--

Simon presses his hips up at me, and I realize I’m overthinking this.  I take him deep into my mouth, caressing him with my tongue while I spread the lube over my fingers.  He shifts his thighs a little bit wider when I press two fingers just behind his bollocks, and slide them down in a way that I hope is torturously slow.  It is for me, anyway.  I shift myself a little, settling my left arm over his hip and getting a better range of motion for my right.

He draws a raspy breath when I brush my finger over his anus.  I take my mouth off his cock.  “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, tightening his fingers in my hair.  “Yeah, don’t stop.”

I slide my fingers back up towards his testicles, and wrap my lips around his head before I press my hand downwards again, slightly harder than before.  I keep my mouth on him while I tease his arse, just keeping contact with his cock while I focus on what my fingers are doing.  I’m not penetrating him -- not yet -- just tickling, massaging.

Simon’s appreciative little sounds get louder and more wanton as the minutes tick by, until he’s beginning to squirm under me, his cock occasionally twitching, to which I respond each time by giving it a firm suck.  And when his pulse is pounding in his femoral artery (a quality I’m trying not to be hyper-aware of), I gather my nerve, make sure my middle finger is slick, and press the tip into him.

The noise he makes is pure sex and wires directly into my nervous system, setting my blood on fire with lust.  I pull him into my mouth at the same time as I thrust my finger deeper and--

The timbre of his voice changes suddenly.  His hand is pulling on my head now, and his trembling is no longer pleasant.

“Stop,” he gasps.  “Baz, _stop_.”

I freeze.  He’s reaching, pushing, and I pull my hand away, let go of his cock, look up at him.

He’s raised up on one elbow, flushed and a bit distressed, breathing hard.  My heart sinks.  “Simon?”

He swallows, nods, takes a couple of deep breaths.  “Yeah.  Sorry, it was good, it was just …”

He trails off, but I understand.  “Too much.  I know.”

Simon nods again, looks down at his chest, embarrassed.  “It was really nice up until then, though.”

I try to smile, though my body is still so keyed up I’m not sure if I do it right.  “I’m glad.”

He glances up at me, shy, and I lay my right arm over his leg, pulling it close to me, my hand on his hip.  He bends his knee to fit into the curve of my torso.  We lie there quietly for a minute before I clear my throat.  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I feel like I should.

He shakes his head.  “It’s okay.  It’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything wrong.  I did want it, at first, I just stopped liking it.”

Which still feels like it’s my fault, even though I know he means it, that this is just how his body works -- sometimes he likes things, sometimes he doesn’t, and sometimes he changes his mind in the middle.  I lean down and brush a kiss to his hip.  “I love you.”

He lays a hand on my head and strokes my hair.  “I love you, too.  What do you want to do now?”

I’m still mostly hard in my trousers, and his touch is reassuring me.  “What do _you_ want?”

“Baz!”  He huffs a laugh.  “I’m asking _you_.  I’m not in this for me right now, I want to do something for you.”

I know what I want.  It still feels awkward to ask him for it, even though we’ve been doing this for years.  “I’d like to fuck you.  Face to face.”

He smiles.  “I’d like that.”

It’s a weight off my chest, and I remove myself from my position between his legs, crawl up beside him.  He pulls me into a kiss that removes any lingering doubts I might have had about him wanting this, too.  But he stops sooner than I’d like.  “You’re still dressed.”

I am still dressed.  I stand up, pull off my t-shirt and then slip out of my jeans and pants.  When I look back at Simon he’s removed the condom I put on him.  He gives me an amused look.  “Keeping the socks on?”

I look down.  They’re black crew socks, the same as I always wear, and one is starting to sag towards my ankle.  I shrug.  “Yes?”

He giggles.  “Okay.  So, logistics.  Condom or towel?”

“I’d rather put a towel down, if that’s okay with you.  Keeps the lube off the bed, too,”

“Yeah, that’s fine.  Will you go get it?”

I roll my eyes and smile despite myself.  “Yeah, all right.”

 

_-Simon-_

 

Baz heads to the bathroom for the towel, and I grab my phone out of my jeans to check the timer for the rice.  “What’s that?” Baz asks, already back.

I put the phone on my bedside table and he lays the towel down.  “Rice timer, remember?” I say.  “We’ve got five minutes.  Think you can do it that fast?”

He gets a wicked grin on his face.  “Bet you I can!”

I climb onto the bed and pull him on top of me, and he kisses me hungrily.  His cock is fully hard and rubbing against mine, which has now had long enough after my _nope_ to start getting back in the game again.  I still don’t think I’m going to come, and I don’t think I’m going to try, but his touch does feel good.  Better than good, really

“Timer,” I whisper, and he lifts off me with a breathy little gasp.

It only takes us a couple of seconds to arrange ourselves.  I make sure my arse is on the towel, and he straddles my thighs, pushing them together with his knees.  The bottle of lube is still lying on the bed and he slicks himself with it generously before I set it aside again.

Baz plants his left hand just to the side of and above my head, and leans down to kiss me, open-mouthed and wet.  It sets my whole body tingling, hungry for his touch.

He shifts his hips a bit, and I hold my bollocks to the side so he can press into the crease between my thighs.  He slides in smoothly, then lowers his body over me, grinds into my arse.  I wrap my arms around his back and flex my thighs, squeezing him.  He shudders, and I think he whispers a swear against my cheek.

“Okay?” I murmur.

“Tip-top,” he gasps, rolling his hips.

I catch his lips for a kiss and press my pelvis up against his, trying to meet him thrust for thrust.  It’s difficult, because he’s speeding up, and he’s in a better position than I am.  But his enthusiasm is contagious, I’m excited as well, trying now to rub my cock against his belly.  When I move a certain way it changes the angle of his penis between my legs, makes it press more firmly into my perineum or the sensitive skin around my arsehole.  It feels astonishingly good, better even than when he was using his hands.  It’s raw, desperate; he’s doing this now because his own pleasure is overwhelming him.

He takes his lips off mine -- he always does when he starts getting close, partly because it’s just hard when he’s moving so much, but I know there’s also an aspect of him being afraid he’ll bite me, or just scratch me with his fangs.  (I don’t think I’d mind, but it’s also too risky to find out.)  But his face is still hovering right over mine, and I can feel his breath on my face.  I close my eyes and tip my head back, focussing on the sensations, on his touch and his motion and the dizzying rush of lust in my body.

His breathing grows rougher. He’s getting close, very close now -- he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d do it in five minutes -- and I squeeze him with my thighs again.  “Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead into my shoulder.  “Oh, fuck, _Simon_ …”

I dig my fingernails into his back and I can feel when he comes, wet and slippery between my arse cheeks and on the towel.  He’s pressing his face into me, gasping, thrusting wildly--

And then my phone alarm goes, and I burst out laughing.

It almost seems like he hasn’t noticed: he’s still trembling, riding out the aftershocks of his orgasm, not letting go of me at all.  I reach for my phone and stop the alarm, then take his head in my hands, lift it off my neck, kiss him.  He hums and presses back into me, grabs my shoulders and thrusts with his hips a few more times, spreading the mess a little more before he starts to relax.

I push at his shoulders in a way that I hope is gentle, but also gets my point across.  “Baz, move.”

“No,” he says, breathing deeply and burying his face in my shoulder again.  “Cuddles.”

I giggle.  “Not now, cuddle monster, I have to turn off the hob.”

“You don’t,” he argues, settling his weight against me.  “The rice can get crispy.”

I know he can’t see me roll my eyes, but I do anyway.  And then I get up some strength and twist to the side, tipping him off me enough that I can sit up.  He’s pouting, but there’s playfulness in his eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, giving him a brief kiss before I get up.  The mess between my legs is sticky and dripping, so I grab my underwear and wipe up the worst of it before I shuffle into the kitchen, still completely naked and with my half-erection bobbing between my legs.  Turning off the fire takes all of one second, and then I head right back.

Baz has rolled onto his back and has his eyes closed.  I grab the towel and toss it on the floor, then climb over him to my side of the bed and snuggle up against him, my head on his shoulder.  He wraps his arm around my back and presses a lazy kiss to my hair.

I reach across his belly for his hand, lace my fingers with his.  He squeezes my hand, and breathes a contented sigh.

“Happy, darling?” I murmur, and he rumbles a laugh.

“Very.”  He caresses my shoulder.  “What about you?  Enjoy yourself?”

“Oh yes.”  I kiss the skin on his collarbone.  “You were wonderful.”

“So were you.”

We lie like that for a while, listening to the pattering of the rain on the roof.  I think he dozes off, because he jerks and draws a startled breath when I give his hand another squeeze and shift to start getting up.

“It’s just me,” I say.  “I need a shower, I’m pretty gross.”

“Okay,” he murmurs.  “I’m going to stay here and sleep.”

“Okay.”  I give him one more kiss before I get up.  “You should clean up too, though, you’re covered in lube and your own come.”

He waves a hand at me and doesn’t open his eyes.  “‘S fine.”

It’s a quick shower, just enough to rinse off and stop feeling sticky.  While I’m at it I soak a flannel in the hot water, and take it into the bedroom.  Baz opens his eyes just before I drop it on his groin.

“What’s this?”

“Bathe yourself.  We have to get to cooking.”

He groans and starts to sit up.  “Do we really _have to?”_

“Rose cardamom rice pudding,” I say, going to fetch some clean underwear.  “I’m eager to try it, and I want you to help me make it.”

“Yes, all right.”  I can hear the smile in his voice, and I turn to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully cleaning himself with the flannel.

When he looks up at me I realise I’ve been staring, and he gives me a cheeky smile.  “Enjoying the show?”

I wish I didn’t blush so easily.  “Maybe.”

The smile takes over his whole face, and he gets up and takes the flannel into the bathroom.

I get dressed while he’s finishing in there, and then head back out to the kitchen.  It doesn’t take me long to collect the rest of the ingredients for the recipe, and Baz joins me just as I’m finishing.

“Right,” he says.  “Cooking.  What can I do?”

“Measure,” I say, handing him a Pyrex cup.  “A cup and a half of milk.”

While he’s getting that I crack an egg into my pot, and when he adds the milk I hand him the wooden spoon.  “Beat that together.”

He gives me a slightly fearful look.  “Really?  Me?”

I clap him on the shoulder.  “I believe in you, Baz.  You just have to make sure to break up the egg a little.”

So he goes to it, and I add the sugar and a pinch of salt, then turn on the fire underneath.  He seems uncertain -- not because of the flammability thing, I know, just because he’s scared of fucking up the recipe.  He doesn’t cook much (he doesn’t cook _at all_ ) so he doesn’t have a shred of confidence.  But it’s rice pudding, it’s not hard, and I’m right here.  It’s not going to burn.

“Great,” I say.  “Put the rice in now.”

He takes the lid off the smaller pot and lifts it, tips it experimentally above the bigger one -- and I can’t help grabbing his wrist.  “Only if you want custard all over the kitchen.”

“What?”

“Use the spoon.  It’s all stuck together, you have to break it up.  Just scoop it.”

“Spoon,” he scoffs, and I know he’s all bluster.  He scoops the rice out in big clumps, then gets to work stirring it into the milk.  “This okay?”

I lean back against the counter.  “Looks great.”

“What now?”

“Keep stirring.  This’ll take about ten minutes, the egg has to cook and it’ll get thick.”

“Ten minutes?!”

I laugh at the horrified look on his face.  “How did you think we make custard?  This isn’t even that bad.”

He _harrumphs_ and looks back down at the pot, trying to hide his smile.

I get out my phone, figuring I can get started on our other project, at least do the recipe finding.  “What’s that other thing called?”

He glances at me.  “What other thing?  The biscuits?”

“Yeah.”

“Ghorayeba.”  He spells it for me before I have to ask.

There are plenty of hits for them in Google, but the first several I open don’t have rosewater in them.  “I thought you said these are rose biscuits.  None of these recipes call for it.”

He shrugs, still looking at the rice pudding.  “They’re always rose in my family, but I guess they don’t have to be.”

I add _rosewater_ to my query and get a different set of results.  I click through a few until I find one that looks good: it’s simple (as a butter biscuit should be) and the author seems to assume that the reader knows what shape to make them and how they should come out.  I don’t, but Baz does, and I’m excited to include him in this.

We’ve got plenty of time in the day to make these, so I start getting out the cold ingredients to warm up while Baz is finishing the pudding.  Butter and an egg go on the window sill, and I get out my hand mixer too, since I’ll need that to cream the butter with the sugar.  Apparently it can be done with a wooden spoon, but that’s just not worth it to me.

When I’m done with that I peek over Baz’s shoulder.  “How’s that looking?”

He shrugs.  “Good?  I don’t really know how it’s supposed to look.”

“It’s really more the feel.”  He hands me the spoon, and I give it a stir.  “Pretty close, I think.  Feel how it’s still a little thin, though?  We’ll give it another couple minutes.”

“When does the rosewater go in?”

“At the end.  We could do it now, if you want.”

He gives me a delighted smile.  “Yes, I do want!”

I open the bottle of rosewater, and it immediately fills the kitchen with the aroma of flowers.

“Put in a lot,” Baz says, and I laugh.

“We’ll start with a little.  We can always add more.”  I pour in a teaspoon of it, then the cardamom, and finally a little bit of vanilla.  “Make sure that’s combined well.”

“Yes, chef.”

I laugh and give him a peck on the cheek.  “Do you want raisins in it?”

He shrugs.  “If we’ve got the golden ones it would be good.”

I pull open the cabinet where we keep things like that, and after a little digging I do find some, as well as some shelled pistachios I’d forgotten about.  “Success!”

I go back to Baz and throw in a handful.  He gives them a stir, then purses his lips thoughtfully.  “More.”

So I add another handful of raisins, and he nods.  “Good.”

“Give it a taste now,” I say.  “See if it needs more sugar or spices or anything.”

He sets aside the wooden spoon and grabs a metal one from the drawer, and dips it into the pot.  While he’s waiting for that bite to cool, a bubble rises up through the thick mixture and bursts noisily on the surface, so I turn off the flame -- it must be cooked through, if it’s starting to boil.

Baz tastes the pudding delicately.  “More rose and cardamom,” he says.

I take the spoon from him and try it myself -- it’s pretty good, but more wouldn’t hurt.  I gesture at the containers on the counter.  “Go for it.”

He does the cardamom first, a generous sprinkle, but seems uncertain when he gets to the rosewater.  “How much?”

I shrug.  “Another teaspoon?  Half?”

He takes the one I was using, fills it a bit more than halfway before pouring it in.  Then he takes the wooden spoon to it again.  I’m tempted to step in and show him how to actually fold it, instead of just stirring in circles.  But it doesn’t matter that much, and this has kind of turned into his project, so I let him do what he’s doing.

“Is it done?” he asks.

“If you think it’s tasty.”

He takes the spoon back from me and tastes it again.  “Yep.  Let’s serve it up.”

I get down a couple of small bowls, and he fills them generously.  The rice pudding is steaming and glistening and looks absolutely picture-perfect.  I pose one on the counter and snap a photo with my phone.

Baz chuckles and carries his bowl over to the couch.  “Come sit down, Snow.”

I grab another spoon and join him as he’s folding his legs up onto the cushions.  “How is it?”

He lifts a steaming spoonful to his lips and blows on it for a few moments before he eats it.  “Mmm,” he sighs, leaning back and closing his eyes for a moment.

“Good?”  I touch it to my lips -- it’s still far too hot for me to eat.  I don’t know how he managed it.

“This is the best day ever.  First we had surprise midday sex, and now we’re having surprise midday rice pudding.”

“That you made,” I point out, waving my spoonful around a little to try to cool it, because I really want to eat it.

He grins.  “I did, didn’t I?  You helped, though.”

I give up on self-preservation and put the spoon in my mouth.  The pudding is almost scalding hot, but it’s smooth and sweet and delicious and wonderfully strongly rose-flavoured.  “Oh wow, this _is_ good.”

He nods, smiling at me awkwardly with his mouth full.

We eat quietly, listening to the rain that’s still pattering on the roof and the windows when the wind kicks up momentarily.

When he’s finished he puts his dish on the floor, then flops across the couch and cuddles against me, his head on my chest.  “Mmmmm.”

“Watch the pudding.”

“You’re almost done.”

“Still.”

He snakes one arm around my back and holds me while I finish eating, and I put my bowl down on the floor when I’m done.  “I can hear you digesting,” he says.

“Um … okay?  What’s that like?”

“Gurgly.”

I laugh, and his head bounces a couple times before he picks it up and sets his chin on my sternum.  “I love you,” he says.

“I love you too, but your jaw is hurting me.”

He smiles and rolls his eyes and sets his head down again.  I lift my hand to run my fingers through his hair, and he breathes a contented sigh.

This _has_ been a fantastic day, a whole afternoon of basically having a date with Baz at home.  We’ve been living together for about four months now, and we fell into routines right away.  Between that instant comfort with each other and our busy   uni schedules, we don’t really spend much time just focussing on each other any more.  I guess there’s an aspect of our togetherness being less special now that it’s the default.  That we’re taking the time today to appreciate one another is really wonderful, it’s reminding me how deeply I love him, how amazing it is that we managed to sculpt our lives into _this._

“I can hear you thinking,” he says.

“I thought you could hear me digesting.”

“Isn’t that the same thing for you?”

I flick his earlobe, and he squeaks, pushing himself up off me, an expression of mock offense on his face.  “Cheeky!”

I lean over and brush a kiss on his lips.  “Time to get up, anyway.  You wash those bowls while I put away the rest, and then we’ll do biscuits.”

The washing up goes quickly, and the biscuit dough comes together in just a couple of minutes, even though I have to add quite a bit more flour than the recipe says to make up for the high humidity today.  I also add a little more rosewater than it calls for, since I know both of us like it that way.

I get out my baking sheet and line it, and turn on the oven -- I’d forgotten to do it when I started, so we’ll have to wait a few minutes while it gets hot.  “How do we shape them?” I ask Baz.

He raises his eyebrows at me.  “Why are you asking me?”

“You’re the one who’s had them before.”

“Yeah, twenty years ago, and I have no idea how they were made.  Doesn’t your recipe tell you?”

“Not really.  I mean, there’s a picture, but I want to do it how you had them.”

“Let me see the thing.”  He fishes my phone out of my pocket since my hands are dirty from working the dough, and studies the low-resolution photo on the web page.  “I think these look like what we had, just normal round biscuits.”

“Okay.”  I roll a small ball of dough in my hands and press it onto the sheet, flattening it slightly.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You got these pistachios out before, are we going to use them?”

“If you want to.  You could put one in the centre of each circle there.”

He gets the bag while I’m forming the second biscuit, and then presses a nut into each one.  “Cute,” he pronounces, and I laugh.

“Good!  Keep doing that, and I’ll keep doing this.”

It only takes us a few minutes to shape all the biscuits, and then I pop the tray in the fridge.  Baz does a double-take.  “Wait.  What did you just do?”

“The hot box isn’t hot yet,” I explain.  “So they’re going into the cold box for a couple minutes so the butter firms up and they hold their shape until they go in.”

He scoffs.  “That’s silly.  There must be a spell to magick the oven to the right temperature.”

I give him a look.  “Maybe, but I do things the Normal way, remember?”

“I’m just saying, I’m sure I could heat up the oven in a snap.”

“It’s always fire with you, isn’t it?”

“That or blood.”  He gives me a grin that would be terrifying if I didn’t know him.  “And sex, which is sort of some of both.”

I chuckle and let him pull me into him with his fingers looped in my jeans pockets.  He gives me a kiss, then trails his lips down my neck, pausing where that dark mole is.  I lift my hands and rest them on his shoulders.  “Baz, we just did it half an hour ago.”

“I know,” he murmurs.  “This isn’t foreplay, it’s just snogging.”

He’s always so gentle it’s barely snogging at all -- he’s never even left a love bite, though I’m not surprised.  I’ve tried a couple times to give him one, but when I do bruise him it’s always healed in an hour.  Sometimes I wish he’d be a little rougher with me -- not a lot, just a little -- so I could fight back.  Tenderness is wonderful, but, well … I’ve been fighting him longer than I’ve been kissing him, haven’t I?  And even though I love him, I do miss that.  The adrenalin, the aggression that neither of us actually means.  I want to feel how strong he is.

“You’re thinking again,” he grumbles against my collarbone.

“Sorry,” I huff.  “You must be a bad influence on me.”

“Oh, absolutely!” he laughs, picking his head up.  “I’m terrible.  The worst.”

I can’t help smiling, and I slide my hands from his shoulders to his chest, and then down his belly, rubbing lightly.  He closes his eyes and tips his head back, suddenly fully relaxed.  I hold him with one hand around his waist so he doesn’t accidentally tip over (he sort of loses himself sometimes when I give him stomach rubs) and we stay that for a few minutes until the oven makes its _piep!_ to let me know it’s hot.

Baz looks a little woozy when he opens his eyes after I step away, but he collects himself after a moment and slides out of the way so I can take the baking sheet to the oven and set the timer.  While they’re baking I figure I might as well do the washing up, so I pop the beaters out of the mixer and drop them in the bowl in the sink, turn on the water, and hand the device to Baz to put away above the fridge since he can reach a little better than I can.

He seems a little uncertain when he turns back to me; he doesn’t like doing the dishes and usually goes off to do something else when I’m working on them.  But today must be special, probably because we’re baking together for what I’m realising is the first time.  I do want to keep him here, rather than giving him an opening to go back to his homework.

I clear my throat.  “So, tell me more about your grandmother and ghorayeba.”

He folds his arms, leaning one hip against the counter.  “I mean, there isn’t that much to tell.  They’re an Egyptian biscuit, and my great-grandparents brought that tradition with them when they moved to England.  We used to have them on holidays when I was little.”

“And they remind you of your grandmother?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t had them since my mother died.”

“But the rosewater made you think of her.”  I rinse off the beaters and set them in the dish drying rack.

He shrugs.  “I guess so.  Made me think of the ghorayeba, anyway, and Grandmother was always there when we had them.”

“So your dad didn’t keep up the tradition, did he?”

Baz shakes his head sadly.  “I think at first it was too hard for him, I’m sure they made him think of my mother.  And Fiona wasn’t going to push it.  Probably it was too painful for her too, something that reminded her of her mother and her sister.  So we stopped having them.”

“That’s too bad.”

He shrugs again.  “It wasn’t a big thing.”

I rinse out the mixing bowl, arrange it on the drying rack, then rinse my hands and turn off the tap.  “We’re all cleaned up here, the biscuits just need five more minutes in the hot box before they’re ready.  Well, and then cooling time.”

Baz leans in and gives me a kiss.  “Do we _have to_ wait for them to cool?”

“I don’t know about you and whatever your superpower is, but _I_ have to let them cool or I’ll get burn blisters on the roof of my mouth.”

He makes a face.  “That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Well, thank you for sharing, I guess,” he scoffs sarcastically.  “I’m going to do some homework until those are ready.”

“I probably should, too,” I say reluctantly.  I was hoping the date vibe would continue, but I guess we’re done for now.  I have reading to do for Number Theory that I shouldn’t put off any further; I’m already struggling and procrastination won’t help.  It annoys me a little that Baz hasn’t had any maths beyond calculus, so he can’t help me with this like he used to in social science.  He also doesn’t understand my frustration with imaginary numbers.

While I’m getting out my book, Baz sets some quiet rock music playing on our speakers.  I settle in at the table to try to wrap my mind around the Riemann zeta function while Anthony Kiedis croons at me to _dream of Californication_.

The oven timer beeps at me before too long, and I get up to take the biscuits out.  They look good, done but not browned, like the picture, and they smell lovely.  Baz is completely absorbed in his reading over on the couch and doesn’t even look up, so I leave the ghorayeba to cool and go back to my textbook.

Eventually I notice that the rain has stopped and the sun is shining weakly through the clouds.  “Oh, look at that.”

Baz lifts his head and blinks at me.  “What?”

“Sun’s out.”

“Don’t lie, Snow, the sun has died and will never be out again.  It’s rain forever.”

I crack a grin at that.  “No, really, come see.”

He gives me a slow, beautiful smile while he closes his book and walks over to me.  “Think it’ll last?”

“Who can say.”

He gestures at the kitchen.  “Those ghorayeba ready yet?  They smell great.”

I turn around in my chair.  “I think they probably are, I don’t know how long ago it was I got them out.”

He picks one up.  “They’re cool to the touch.  Here.”  I take it from him -- they’re still a little warm, the best temperature for fresh biscuits.  He takes another and plops into the chair across from me, and takes a bite of it.  “Oh, wow.”

“Good?”  I take a bite of mine -- they’re wonderful, light and sweet and rose-scented without being overpowering.

“These are fantastic,” Baz says.  “They taste just like I remember.”

I pop the rest of the biscuit into my mouth, and this bite has the salty-nutty flavour of the pistachio.  I stand up and take two more, one for him and one for me.  He smiles around his mouthful when I set it down in front of him, and finishes chewing before he speaks.  “I feel like we might finish these today.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

He reaches over and takes my hand.  “Thank you for making my grandmother’s ghorayeba for me.”

“Any time.”  I squeeze his fingers.  “Thanks for telling me about them.”

He grins broadly, then puts a whole one in his mouth and leans back, eyes closed while he chews and makes a little happy humming sound through his nose.


	2. Rice Pudding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I am American and I cook in an American kitchen, these recipes use American measurements.
> 
> Both of these recipes call for rosewater, since that’s, y’know, the theme. You can leave it out, or replace it with vanilla, but they won’t be the same. I found it easily at my usual supermarket, which has a very robust Indian and Middle Eastern section. One bottle will go a LONG way.

**Rose Cardamom Rice Pudding**

 

I adapted this recipe from a very simple one, and it gives a great result for not a lot of work.  It’s easy to adjust the flavours, just taste as you go along towards the end.  I actually made this the first time with a premade rose and cardamom spice blend I got in a spice subscription box, but I supplemented with additional rosewater because I love rosewater.

 

Ingredients:

¾ cup short or medium grain rice (often sold as pudding rice in Europe) (but if all you have is long-grain, honestly just go for it)

1 ½ cups water

1 ½ cups milk (I use almond milk because it’s what I keep on hand; if using alternative milk you may need to use less sugar or vanilla (depending on what comes in it) so I recommend tasting)

1 egg

⅓ cup sugar

A pinch of salt

½ tsp rosewater, or more to taste

½ tsp ground cardamom, or more to taste

½ tsp vanilla extract, or more to taste

½ cup golden raisins (optional)

Chopped pistachios (optional)

 

Cook the rice in the water.  If you have a rice cooker it will work great, otherwise use your usual stovetop method.

 

When the rice is cooked, beat the egg into the milk, then combine with the sugar, salt, and rice.  Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until thickened.  This should take about 10 minutes.  When the pudding is hot and the desired consistency, stir in the seasonings and raisins (if using).  You can add more milk to thin the pudding if necessary.  Serve hot, garnished with chopped pistachios if you like.


	3. Ghorayeba

**Marwa’s Ghorayeba**

 

This recipe is from an online knitter friend of mine who died tragically in the summer of 2015.  She loved baking for people, so we celebrate her memory with unnecessary cookies.  She shared this recipe with another knitter friend who had done a cookie swap with her.

 

If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out to them.   You are valuable, your friends and family are valuable, and there are resources available for support.   US National Suicide Prevention Hotline  1 (800) 273-8255; UK hotline (Samaritans) 0845 790 9090.

 

Ingredients:

1 cup butter (2 sticks), softened

½ cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp rosewater

Pinch of salt (omit if using salted butter)

2 cups flour (may need a bit more or less depending on humidity, as is always the case with baking)

Nuts for garnish (optional - I love roasted salted pistachios)

 

Preheat oven to 325 F.

 

Cream the butter and sugar in an electric mixer until fluffy, then beat in the egg and rosewater and salt.  Add the flour slowly until until it forms a dough; it should hold its shape and not be very sticky.  Form the cookies into whatever shape you like; if you chill the dough first you can slice it.  A traditional method is to slightly flatten a small ball of dough and put a nut in the center.

 

Bake about 15 minutes, until just beginning to turn golden on the bottom.  (Or you can go longer, if you like them toasty like Marwa did.)  Cool and enjoy!


End file.
